


Silent Chamber

by birdinastorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, Politics, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rhea critical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdinastorm/pseuds/birdinastorm
Summary: Far from being a unified country, Fódlan was merely an uneasy collection of houses that had fought a common enemy, and without that enemy this alliance was beginning to collapse. Tumultuous times had bred every sort of vicious opportunist, from humble highway men to upstart robber barons, and so violence continued to blossom across the land. In the summer of 1187, when the heat had slackened the fighting, Claude, Lorenz, and Byleth set out to do the real work of building a nation. They went to each house bearing a precious gift: an invitation to the first all-Fódlan congress of lords, and a stake in their collective future.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. The Note

Low clouds hung over Garreg Mach, threatening snow. Unconcerned by the weather, Byleth was taking a walk through the town. The townspeople watched her carefully; she was the Archbishop now, and outside of church ceremony no one had any idea how to treat her. People who had been perfectly pleasant to her when she had been a professor and mercenary now bowed to her stiffly as she passed. It saddened her. Still, she was not about to spend all her days in the cold seat of the archbishop’s audience chamber, aloof from life in Garreg Mach.

The town was bursting with activity in preparation for both the Saints’ Procession festival and the first session of the congress of lords, set to begin next week, at the conclusion of the festival. Wreaths of dried white flowers festooned the doors all along the main street, and a large stage was being built in the square. People hefted huge braided garlands of grasses and flowers to the square, plowing through the traffic on the street, peddlers’ carts and nobles’ carriages alike.

Claude proposed having the congress coincide with the festival because the nobility were used to traveling at this time of year in pilgrimage, even though winter weather often made it difficult. The festival also shone some pious light onto the congress’s proceedings. Claude’s insistence on using the church as the glue to bind Fódlan together rankled her. It was her new ceremonial duties as Archbishop that she dreaded the most—to be looked at with the same reverent awe, verging on fear, for the rest of her days.  
  
She turned onto a little side street. A messenger in a hooded cloak passed her and casually brushed her hand with a scroll as he did so. She grasped it and pulled it up her sleeve with a secretive little smile. 

This messenger was the last one in a long line of messengers that went from the monastery to the Locket, all running along backroads and byways in enchanted shoes. Had any of them been intercepted—no such misfortune had befallen them, so far—the would-be thief would find nothing of perceptible value, no fortune or state secrets, or anything seeming to need such stealth. Rather, they would have in their hands a simple missive no different from those sent between lovers in far-flung districts in Enbarr every afternoon. The thief wouldn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing whose affair they had briefly interrupted, because neither lover ever mentioned the other by name. There would be nothing to do but let the messenger go and hope that their next target would be worth the trouble. 

Safe in her office, Byleth lit the oil lamp on her desk and unfurled the scroll. A cone of incense fell out, which she placed in a small enamel dish and lit with a spark of fire magic. As the spicy acrid scent filled the air, she read the letter: 

_My Queen,_

_Words cannot express how excited I am for you and this new endeavor. I wish I could be there! I admit I’m also a little anxious for you. Were you actually as cold as I thought you were when I first met you, I would worry less. These folks will absolutely take advantage of your big heart (hah!) if you let them. Do not let them. Do not be afraid to use your power, I know you have it in you. Then again I shouldn’t worry because I know you’re perfectly capable of getting your way, like when you…_

Byleth smiled at the memory he called up. 

Each one of these letters was another whispered promise that they would see each other again, only when that would be, she simply didn’t know. 

As soon as the campaign to introduce the idea of the congress to the lords of Fódlan had come to an end, Claude, with many apologies and promises, had disappeared into Almyra. Only a week later the first message arrived, since then they had kept up a regular, if somewhat one-sided, correspondence. Though Claude could and did comment in vague terms about what she was doing, Byleth couldn’t do the same. Where he was, what he was doing, she never knew, and while he seemed to think it was safer this way, it made the unknowable distance between them feel greater. Still, she treasured these letters, though they did little to assuage her loneliness. She sighed. Murky dusk flecked with snow pressed against the windows, and the office was stiflingly dark.   
She picked up a quill and some parchment and began to compose a response:

_My own heart,_

_I could never forget that moment, but rest assured I will not be using those tactics in this situation…_

☾

The festival began with the Saints’ Procession, a parade where the townspeople and the pilgrims, all dressed in white, walk from the town square to the saints’ statues in the cathedral, to drape them in garlands of flowers and leaves. Along the edges of the procession children run, whipping streamers shaped like the Immaculate One through the air, singing snatches of The Dragon’s Sheltering Wing at the top of their lungs. Leading the parade in the place of honor was Lorenz, resplendent in white and wearing a white rose on his lapel, and behind him went the pious nobles, white opals glittering at their throats. 

The parade wended its way through the monastery and pushed into the cathedral, where Byleth was standing with Seteth and Flayn before the altar. She felt odd in her formal clothes, and odder still as Lorenz, with great flourish, presented her as the great Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, holy light of the land, Her Eminence, Byleth. 

She felt decidedly not holy. Rhea, or rather, Seiros, had spent her whole long life building the church like a fortress, and making guards for it out of the unwitting nobility. She had instilled in them a piety that was nearly indistinguishable from fear, wielding the Knights of Seiros like the swift blade of an assassin, intolerant of even the slightest deviation from her vision of Fódlan. At the same time Seiros created a mythology painting Sothis as wise and all-powerful, and perhaps began to believe it herself, as her memories faded over the centuries. Byleth knew the truth, of course. Sothis was a very powerful, but fallible, being, and she was no more holy than the little white strawflowers that adorned the statues of her family.

The nobles went first to accept her blessing. They introduced themselves, for as holy as this holiday was, they would let no opportunity for recognition pass them. The names, and the rote blessing that followed, drummed in her ears. Kleiman, Sigurdrifa, Palamon, Mortimer, von Hretha, may the light of the goddess shine upon you, on and on, and then Byleth’s attention snapped to the people standing before her. A woman, dark hair pulled back, in a simple white wool smock, and a teen girl, standing behind her as if she were a shield, though the girl’s stature made hiding impossible. 

“I am Polina Graeme, and this is my daughter, Nadezhda Blaiddyd,” her voice quiet. Her eyes had a sharp glint to them, almost like a challenge.

Byleth nodded, saying, “Thank you. Please accept this blessing.”   
Hearing that name was jarring. In the hush of the cathedral, others certainly heard the name as well. Byleth saw a few nobles turn their heads as mother and daughter went to lay white flowers at the base of the saints’ statues. She wondered at the hardness in Graeme’s face, and the girl’s anxious bearing. There wasn’t time to think about it now—hundreds of faces turned towards her like sunflowers facing the sun. They had surrendered their lives to something they didn’t understand, for a reward that she herself didn’t even know the truth of. She began to recite the blessing for the whole congregation. 

☾

The next afternoon, as the nobles dined at the banquet hosted by the monastery to close out the festival, rumors about the Blaiddyd girl swirled around. It was a juicy distraction from the looming responsibilities they would take on tomorrow.

Lorenz, seated with Byleth and the other architects of the congress, turned to her and asked pointedly, “So what do you think if this whole Blaiddyd business?” 

“Should I think anything of it?” Byleth said. 

“I should say! I for one think it may be more disruptive to our enterprise than is perhaps immediately obvious,” Lorenz said. “Here’s what I’ve determined the situation to be, just from noting the idle chatter: many nobles think there’s no way she can be a legitimate Blaiddyd, and are angry that she was in the procession with the nobility. Others believe she is in fact legitimate, which, to my mind, is the less insulting but more chilling notion.” 

“Chilling?” Byleth asked, cocking her head. 

“Well, there are certain Faerghus nobles who cling to the idea of the monarchy. Not having a royal heir made their wish for a rightful ruler, however fervent, fairly harmless. Having one, however distantly related she may be—though honestly I have no idea—suddenly it’s a viable idea. A queen in Faerghus! We would be right back where we started—since I can’t imagine Adrestia not proposing having their own governance if Faerghus does—and there goes our dream of unity in Fódlan, all for some backwards belief in divine right!” Lorenz’s pale face flushed. “Ridiculous!” 

“You don’t think we made enough of a case for rule by council?” 

“I’d like to think we did, but there’s really no bottom to human stupidity.” Lorenz sighed dramatically. “I had everything planned out perfectly. Every invitation was strategic. Now this Blaiddyd appears and I can’t account for her—I couldn’t have accounted for her! Of all the things that could have happened…” He groaned. “I’m fine, it’s fine, I will just have to deal with it,” he said grimly. 

“Perhaps I can speak to Lady Graeme?” Byleth offered.

“About what? There’s no need, and besides, you should stay out of it until I can get a handle on the situation. Best not to give the monarchists any impression that you support Graeme or her daughter. They’ll start making parallels to Loog or some such national myth nonsense… What’s with the sad look?” 

“When they came to me they both looked quite miserable, and that was even before this spat about their placement in the procession started.”

“Oh I see,” Lorenz said. “Look, I don’t want to seem cold-hearted, but your position as the Archbishop gives your every action a weight it didn’t have before; it’s really not prudent to speak to them yourself. Have a lackey check in on them if you must, but for goddess’s sake don’t go down to their inn yourself just because you feel for them.” Byleth scowled at him, but he barreled on. “And another thing—I don’t approve of you walking around the town nearly every day. Not only is it unbecoming of someone of your station, it’s dangerous. We don’t know how many of the old Empire’s ideologues are still out there, waiting to put a knife in you.”  
  
“Your concern isn’t necessary, I can take care of myself.”

“I well know, but anyone can be taken by surprise.”

“It’s very difficult to take me by surprise,” Byleth said simply. “And I don’t care for this talk about ‘station’. My title has changed, but I have not. I do not wish to float about divorced from humanity like Rhea.” 

“But you must understand that maintaining that distance gave her freedom to act,” Lorenz said in exasperation.

Byleth couldn’t argue that point. It settled heavily in her chest. Lorenz made some conciliatory gestures and moved on to small talk, but Byleth was barely listening. Was it foolishness to want to see what was behind the hardness in Lady Graeme’s eyes? For Sothis, nearly every one of Byleth’s moves was foolish, from her instinct to protect Edelgard, a girl she didn’t know, to her little love for every one of her students, since it didn’t and couldn’t encompass every creature in Fódlan. Sothis was just naturally frustrated with the limitations of being human, and had little appreciation of humans’ natural strengths. Yet it was one thing to be chided by a being who no longer remembered her time among humans, and another to be chided by humans for being human. Be queenly! says Claude. Be holy and aloof, says Lorenz. Be this! Be that! And so her bonds tighten. 

She had one more obligation this evening, the only one she had been looking forward to among all her ceremonial duties for the festival: a less formal reception. As she readied herself in her room, there was a soft knock on the door. It was Seteth, wearing his usual look of concern tempered by having seen it all in his long life. 

“I wanted to speak with you, as I couldn’t help but overhear the debate you were having with Lorenz.” 

Byleth let him in, and they sat together. The late afternoon was gray and slid quickly into darkness. In the light of the candelabra, Seteth’s ageless face almost looked old. 

“So, do you agree with Lorenz? Should I ignore my curiosity and stay out of the situation?”   
“Yes and no. Yes I agree that it would be prudent not to meet with Lady Graeme, but no, I don’t think that’s the right thing to do. And I don’t mean ‘right’ as in the ‘moral’ thing to do. I’ll endeavor to explain, but I’m not sure I can…only, I think you should follow your curiosity where it leads you. You are very curious, are you not?”

“I am.” 

“I have been thinking about the nature of the power of the goddess since you received it. I believe that it’s more than you yourself have direct control over, and it is indeed very powerful. It may work along channels we, as human beings, mostly—don’t understand. I believe your interest in Lady Graeme and her daughter may be more important than anyone realizes. So, while I hesitate to recommend speaking to them, I think you should. Besides all that, I do think you should do what you think is right, just so that you can be yourself, and not a picture of the Archbishop, or even Rhea.”

“Thank you for saying so. I feel so trapped in this role,” Byleth sighed. 

“I know you do, which worries me,” Seteth said. Thoughtfully, carefully he continued, “I don’t agree with how Rhea built the church, but everything she did, she did to protect us. I know I do the same with Flayn. The result is oftentimes more harmful than not. Quite frankly, I think Rhea did you a disservice by putting you in this position.” 

“Will you find out where Lady Graeme is staying?” 

Seteth smiled. “I will. Try to have a good time at the reception, yes? Everyone misses your smile.”

☾

The Blackbird Inn is the oldest inn in Garreg Mach, almost as old as the monastery itself, and it shares a stone wall with the long-gone outpost Gearastan Mach, which stood there before the monastery was built. In years past it had been quite popular among nobles due to its air of deep history, but it had lately fallen out of favor. Nowadays it was frequented by hard-up nobles and well-to-do merchants. Byleth presumed Lady Graeme was the latter. 

As Byleth approached the inn, she heard the baying of dogs. A strange sound, tearing through the dense, foggy air, as if a hunt was afoot in the town’s streets. She turned a corner and found a peculiar tableau: the inn’s tiny courtyard full to bursting with barking dogs and arguing lords.

“Call off your dogs, Edmond, for goddess’s sake!” one lord shouted, pushing a beagle away with his foot. Another lord, certainly Edmond himself, made a warning gesture at him. 

“Don’t touch my dogs, they’re just riled up because you started shouting!” 

“Aye, they’re making a racket, but they do make a more eloquent case than you!” a third lord yelled. One side of the courtyard exploded in laughter. 

“What’s going on here?” Byleth shouted. The lords, who hadn’t noticed her arrival, all balked like children caught stealing sweets. Silence descended on the courtyard—even the dogs quieted down. They looked expectantly up at the men, waiting for the noise to start again. 

“Your—Your Eminence,” Edmond was the first to regain his composure, and bowed to her. “Caerwyn Edmond, at your service. Please excuse us, and our boorish behavior. I am simply here to defend the lady’s honor.” 

“Lady Graeme?”

“Precisely, Your Eminence.” 

“Edmond here has it backwards, Your Grace,” a lord said vehemently. “There’s no honor to defend here but our own. Graeme is merely a commoner. And her daughter? We have no proof she’s a true Blaiddyd.” 

“They want the truth out of her, here and now,” Edmond said. “Truly crass behavior. My compatriots and I caught wind of the plan and decided to head it off.” 

“What’s crass is a commoner parading with a bastard! We will not let it stand!”

“And if she isn’t a bastard, you’ll have terrorized a fine woman and a royal heir!” a lord on Edmond’s side shouted, which set the dogs howling again. 

“Preposterous!” an old man growled. “Girl’s too old to be Dimitri’s and Rufus lacked a crest. She can’t be anything but a bastard, probably got by some minor Blaiddyd who died with the rest of them! Stop deluding yourself.” 

“Silence!” Byleth commanded. The crowd shuffled sheepishly. “When I invited you all to debate, this is not what I imagined! About to start a brawl, are we?” 

“Nothing so low…” one lord protested. 

“We’re grateful to you,” another said, “for keeping us from our worse natures. We forgot ourselves in our haste.” He addressed his companions, “What say you? Shall we go?” 

The door to the inn banged open. The crowd parted in surprise. Standing in the doorway was Nadezhda herself, with her mother pulling at her arm. “Nadia please…” Lady Graeme pleaded. The girl wrenched her arm away and stepped into the middle of the courtyard. Her face burned with rage, red up to the roots of her copper hair. In her hand she carried an iron poker from the hearth. 

“I know why you’re here,” Nadezhda said. Edmond stepped forward with a placating sound, but she swung around and pointed the poker on him, and he stepped back. “You’ve been whispering about us, calling my mother a liar,” she pointed the poker at the old man. “Calling me a bastard. We are neither. And you want proof?” 

Before the bemused, frightened faces of both factions of lords, Nadezhda took the poker in both hands. She used her crest to bend it into a neat hairpin, the unmistakable starburst of Blaiddyd sparkling around her. She dropped the poker. The sound of it hitting the uneven flagstones rang through stunned silence. “Don’t bother us again.”

Lady Graeme, her hand pressed to her mouth, cowered in the doorway. Nadezhda went to pull her mother back in. Among the lords’ stunned faces, Edmond’s cracked into a grin.

“Did you see that? Her crest, her strength, that anger. She must be Rufus’s!” he said excitedly to his friend. He ran up to Byleth. “Your Eminence, I can only apologize profusely for this little show of ours. It was my intent to stop them from coming here in the first place, but I failed, plainly.” He looked back at the inn and then back at Byleth, smiling. “Please protect the girl and her mother. Clearly they are in need of a more capable guardian than I.” 

“It looks like Miss Nadezhda is capable,” Byleth said.

Edmond laughed. “No doubt!” 

“I’ll see you at the congress, stay out of trouble until then,” Byleth said. Edmond looked a little confused and starstruck to be spoken to by the Archbishop in such a way, but marshaled himself enough to bow deeply and take his leave. The rest of the lords dispersed, still shocked from the show of strength they had witnessed.

Byleth stepped into the inn. The bottom floor was a traditional common room, with a low ceiling and a big hearth. It was empty save Lady Graeme, who sat facing the fire, the proprietor, who was soothing her, and Nadezhda, who stood off to one side and stared into a corner. Lady Graeme’s thin pale hands clutched her black wool skirt. 

“Excuse me,” Byleth said softly. The proprietor began to wave her off, saying the lady was not feeling well, then saw who was addressing her. 

“Your Eminence,” she said nervously. Never in 900 years had an Archbishop stepped into her inn. Lady Graeme looked up, faced streaked with tears. 

“I wished to speak to Lady Graeme, but I did not expect such a scene, so I can return later if she wishes it.” 

With soft amusement, she watched the proprietor relay this request to Lady Graeme, even though Graeme plainly heard her. Lady Graeme then beckoned Byleth over to the fire, and bid the proprietor to take Nadezhda back to the room. The girl went with her head bowed, face veiled by her shining hair. 

“Your Eminence, you really came here to speak to me, not to disband that mob?” Lady Graeme said, in wonder and wariness both. “I don’t know why I should have the honor. I am just a pilgrim on a very long journey.”

“A long journey?” 

“One that started when the war did. My daughter and I moved from manor to manor, to escape the fighting, never staying anywhere for more than a few weeks. You see, I have plenty of connections from being an antiques dealer. Though we were never really in much danger, it wasn’t a comfortable existence, either. As things settled down I only wanted to go on a proper pilgrimage, to the Saint’s Procession here. It was not the comfort I had hoped, because of those nobles I somehow offended by taking our rightful place.” Her eyes became hard again, where they had been soft and distant. “I can see the question hiding behind your teeth. How can it be true?”

Byleth shook her head. 

Lady Graeme’s defenses stayed up. “So why are you here?”

“I wanted to see how you were faring. You were unlike the other guests at the blessing—you seemed to come to me with real need. I feel I did not meet that need.” 

Lady Graeme gave her a brittle smile, behind which she surely locked what she wanted to say. Instead, she inclined her head and said, “No, you didn’t fail me, if that’s what you feel.” For a moment her gaze was so keen that Byleth feared she saw straight through her to the void that Sothis had left in her. Lady Graeme continued, “I appreciate your concern, however I must deal with my daughter, so if you will allow me…” 

“Of course. Please come to me if you need anything.” 

A softer smile this time. “An extremely generous offer that I will perhaps take you up on.” She bowed and left the fireside. Byleth climbed her way back up to the monastery on foot. 

☾

Her secretary came into her office with a stack of mail, which she usually slapped down on her desk without much ceremony, but today she lingered near the door as if there was something she needed to say. 

“Your Grace, a message came to you today via the gatekeeper. You sometimes get strange anonymous messages from people coming up to the gate, so I thought not to bother you with it, but the writer of this one seems to know you.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“I do.”

“Give it here then, and thank you for telling me.” 

Her secretary pulled it out of her binder, and gave it to her somewhat reluctantly. It was just a square piece of paper, hastily folded. 

_Your Grace, thank you for chastising those lords. You did me a great service. I wanted to speak with you but not in my mother’s presence. If she knows I spoke with you it would go very badly for me. I listened to your conversation with her—I apologize for that. She wants me to apologize for what I did but I will not. It may not look like it but she wants the attention of those lords. It hasn’t gone well for us. Please send a reply back via the gatekeeper, the nice one. I will ask for it by evening. Thank you again and please forgive my calling upon you, I don’t know what else to do._

Nadia. Byleth took a small piece of paper and replied: Follow the gatekeeper’s instructions. 

☾

Lorenz arrived for the meeting in the cardinal’s room like the wind before a storm. Byleth and Seteth readied themselves for it. Mottled roses of color bloomed on his face. 

“Where’s Sylvain? Not here yet? Typical,” he said. “Well since I can’t begin my report yet, let me tell you of one of the many indignities I faced today. Acheron of all people came up to me to apologize for facing me and the Archbishop on the battlefield. He then tried to submit himself to my service, which is patently ridiculous. I said to him outright, I’m not the damned King of Fódlan, I’m the speaker of the congress! Honestly if he must grovel at someone, there are services for that!” Byleth’s secretary appeared at the door with Sylvain. “Saints’ spirits, Gautier, must you be late for everything? Get in here.” 

“Keep your tits laced up tight, Your High Horseliness, I’m barely late.” He nodded at Byleth. “Hey Professor.” Sylvain took a seat next to Lorenz, whose dudgeon was getting much, much higher than his horse. 

“So, my report for today,” Lorenz began, pointedly ignoring Sylvain’s insult, “The absolutely first session of this new government—I cannot believe I am saying this—was simply no different from some village paternity case. Edmond and his little crew pressed the issue of the girl being, one way or another, a Blaiddyd, and that makes her, of course!—fit to rule an entire country. Well, he didn’t go so far as to suggest that outright, but he is implying it. It also has implications for the allocation of the old Blaiddyd land, which has been hotly contested since the fall of that house. 

And you—Your Grace, don’t think I don’t know you went to Blackbird Inn this morning.”

“I don’t regret it.” 

“I’m sure you don’t, but do know that Edmond was using your presence there as some kind of good omen. If we aren’t able to counter him effectively, I daresay by the end of these four weeks these northern lords will have voted away their privileges to a teen girl, and Edmond and his friends will surely all figure out how to be regent.

“Gautier here will explain a bit more of the situation. If you please,” he passed off to Sylvain.

“Keep using my last name, it’s not like we fought in a war together! Ok, ok, I’ll get on with it!” Sylvain leaned back in his chair. “Alright, here’s the thing about Edmond. He’s a minor noble, but who isn’t in Faerghus these days? The whole land’s a power vacuum. What Cornelia did, splitting up the Kingdom and murdering all the Blaiddyds—no single uprising in all of Kingdom history has ever been as disruptive. And we’ve had a lot, and a lot of bad ones. The land is poor, you know? Nobles fought tooth and nail even in the good years. Then Dimitri…well…he got his friends killed and then got himself killed, and his friends were not nobodies. They were all heirs of major houses themselves. All of a sudden it’s really only my father, and a couple of other nobles in the west who bowed to Cornelia and lived, who aren’t petty nobles scrambling for big ol’ slices of land they would have never had access to before.”

“You think Edmond’s part of the land grab?” Byleth asked. 

“Eh, no. He’s too minor to raise a lot of defense for what he does have, and doesn’t have any extra capacity for expansion. So he’s more of a law-and-order type. That’s what the king’s job was, to keep all the nobles in their places. Hell, Dimitri went off to do that when he was fourteen, after the old king was killed, because that’s what the prince does, too. Dimitri was good at it—maybe too good at it. Felix said…Ah hell, Felix, what a fool he was.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Seteth.

Sylvain leaned forward, clasping his hands nervously. “I know, but I feel like I must. ‘Cause there’s more to this monarchist thing than what Edmond wants, which is the old order, however bad it was. A lot of the nobles feel guilty about what happened to Dimitri. You see, he marched a long way. Plenty of nobles could have raised armies for him, but they didn’t. Some gave him supplies, but it didn’t come to much. Quite plainly, many of them didn’t do their duty. They were too terrified of Cornelia. You know what duty is like in Faerghus—it’s more guilt than anything, because who does their duty at all times? Who does their duty when it really matters? Fewer people than would admit it. He could have retreated and regrouped, but he didn’t. Now he’s dead, and the people of Faerghus fear the dead. They want to make it up to him, for failing him.”

“By reinstating a ruling Blaiddyd?” 

“Sure,” Sylvain said, “Some people have other ideas, like posthumously making him the last king of Faerghus, but Edmond could definitely frame making the girl a queen as something Dimitri would have wanted—which, having known the guy, is probably not true.” Sylvain laughed ruefully. 

“What does the girl want, I wonder?” Byleth asked.

“That couldn’t possibly matter” Lorenz said, shaking his head. “Surely if the proposition was put to her mother she would go along with the plan.” 

“Well, don’t dismiss the girl out of hand, Lorenz,” Sylvain said. “You forget her lineage. I would think that you of all people would keep that in mind.”  
  
“What of her lineage?” Lorenz asked testily. 

“They were all willful bastards—well, not literally, but you know—to the last.” 

☾

Byleth’s instructions to the gatekeeper were thus: Have Nadezhda meet him at the Hour of the Griffin, when the day’s session of congress is to begin, in the little courtyard off the market. In that courtyard there’s a little secret stairwell. 

The builder of the monastery is unknown, or possibly only known by Rhea, and she’s not one for reminiscing, but whoever they were, they made a monastery that was less like a complex of buildings and more like a person. Its stony, staid exterior was its mask, its public face. From a distance it looked coherent, and even lovely. The halls and courtyards offered a more intimate view but even in this private realm it would not bare many secrets. Between the walls, and under the flagstone floors, a labyrinth lay. The monastery stood on a foundation of crypts and caves, a twisted space into which anything worth hiding or forgetting would fall. So Nadezhda would have to pass through this place of secrets, with the gatekeeper to guide her, to reach Byleth. This was just the way of the Archbishop, because the halls and courtyards, all regular and true, were never as useful as the twisting path. 

That stairwell led to a crawlspace, which, unexpectedly, had an exit into the kitchen. Cats patrolled it regularly. Byleth had stationed herself near the little trapdoor, with tea and cakes set out on the nickel countertop nearby. Shuffling sounds came from the crawlspace, and the trapdoor opened slowly with a complaining creak. Two wide blue eyes stared out from the darkness, and much like a monastery cat, Nadezhda eased herself out of the trapdoor warily. She brushed off her skirts and looked around in wonder. 

“Whatever is that passage for?” 

“I have simply no idea,” said Byleth, brightly. “Welcome, have some tea and cakes if you like.” 

Nadezhda looked tempted. “I really can’t stay for very long, I told my mother I was just going up to the cathedral to pray.” 

“I understand. What is it you wished to tell me?” 

The girl paced around the little corner of the kitchen. She’s impetuous—Dimitri’s princely education taught him to suppress that. In Dimitri it coiled, starved of light and air, turning sour; in Nadezhda it could run free. What little she knew of both the king and his brother, Rufus, they also let it run rampant—that fire, which burned through them all. 

“My mother, she told you that pretty little story, of our time as refugees in war turning into our time as pilgrims in peace? If only that was the whole of it. The rest of it is that she dragged me here to show me off to all of the assembled nobles, congressmen and pilgrims alike. She only just decided that it was safe to reveal my origin, and already she’s trying to cash in on it.” 

“How so?”

“She wants to find a husband for me as soon as possible. She says it’s for my own good. Yet since we got here, things have taken a turn. First, it was all those nobles who came after my mother for daring to walk in the part of the parade I am entitled to. Then it was that man, Edmond, and his friends…”

“Has Edmond spoken with your mother?” 

“He came to her yesterday evening. He seems to think I’m entitled to the house’s land, and possibly more. But I don’t care about the land, or anything else. I can’t think of anything worse than being some noble’s wife. I’ve been in enough manors in my life to know the trappings aren’t worth it. But my mother insists on placing me somewhere ‘safe’.” 

A familiar situation that many of the students at the academy dealt with, but made worse by the house involved. A royal house, a dead house. A crest that would be lost, like many before it—an unacceptable loss, to people like Edmond. Byleth looked at the girl before her, practically vibrating with pent up fear and anger, and thought, the mark of Blaiddyd can go. Yet she didn’t have many good options for her. 

Nadezhda continued, “If she finds someone to marry me off to, I don’t know how I could get out of it. This place is crawling with lords, I feel like I’m running out of time.”

“I understand. I can’t say I have a solution, but with your help, I think I can find one. You should keep me apprised of the situation.”

Nadezhda looked circumspect. “You want me to spy on her and Edmond.” This one’s sharper than Dimitri, Byleth thought. “Coming to you is already risky, so I’m not sure I can.” The girl picked up a cake and popped into her mouth and chewed. “But if things get worse, and I need to talk to you again, I’ll talk to the gatekeeper.”

☾

Edmond fell in line, at least during the sessions of congress. Lorenz became even more suspicious of this more tractable Caerwyn Edmond, and said to Byleth one evening as they were having dinner, that he was having Edmond followed, almost as an afterthought. This wasn’t surprising, it was only surprising that he had told her. Claude was certain that both Lorenz and the old duke Gloucester had him followed since shortly after he made himself known in the Alliance. Edmond was going to be an easier target, having none of Claude’s long training in secrecy, and possessing the kind of carelessness that comes with arrogance. “He’s loud,” Lorenz said bluntly, picking over his fish, “You can follow him just by listening for his hounds.” 

Lorenz reported a few days later that Sylvain had gotten into an altercation with Edmond during a break in the session that day. Several nobles, mostly of Edmond’s coterie, and a few of Adrestia, were lounging in the common room. Edmond had reasons to feel smug: he had gotten several nobles from areas outside Faerghus to deliver aid to minor house territories that were overrun by bandits, and was, of course, being loud about this accomplishment. Sylvain, who had only just arrived to hear Edmond congratulating himself, must have said something disparaging to him out of pique. The other nobles in attendance had to keep them apart. Lorenz shook his head, saying, if only he could keep himself in check, Sylvain would make an excellent diplomat. He’s charming, and could talk his way out of anything if he wasn’t so hotheaded. 

Byleth decided to get the story out of Sylvain himself. When he arrived in Byleth’s office his practiced nonchalance looked thinner than ever, translucent like fine porcelain. 

“What’s up?” he said, sitting sideways in a chair and throwing his head back. “I feel like I’m a student being called in for breaking into the wine cellar again. I didn’t even hit Edmond.”

“You’re saying that like you wanted to.”

“Oh yeah I did.” 

“Sylvain, what happened?” 

“Did Lorenz tell you that I started it? Because I didn’t. You know what did? Edmond boasting to my face that Faerghus needs men like him, who never left it in its hour of need. That minor little shits like himself—who never spent any time in the company of the royal family!—who ‘respect and honor our traditions’, know what’s best for the country.” Sylvain leapt out of his chair, entirely unable to keep his uncaring facade up anymore. “He doesn’t know! He doesn’t know what I went through. When Dimitri was a kid, a simple kid, he tried to convince Rufus not to scour Duscur for what happened to Lambert. He failed. But he tried, and because he tried I thought he wasn’t the same kind of man Rufus was, that Lambert was, relishing bloodshed, leaning hard on the power of violence. I was wrong! I was so wrong!” He stood at the window, looking out over the monastery’s roofs, sheets of icy rain sluicing off them. He ran his hands through his hair. “To have that man look me in the eye and say that having a king or a queen—one person, bent to their own bloody purpose and proud of it—is what Faerghus needs? It’s a miracle I didn’t strike him down.”   
  
Byleth stood by him, looking where he was looking, which was into nothing. 

“Professor…”

“Byleth.”

“Byleth…Sorry for all that.”

“No need to apologize,” she said, soothingly. 

“My father…he’ll agree with Edmond. He’ll say something stupid like, we need the power of a king in uncertain times. I’m supposed to be here, representing him. I can’t do it.” 

“Sylvain, we need you here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said sharply. “But I’m telling you this so you know: if Edmond gets Margrave Gautier, he’ll get a lot of the other lords too. Our house is one of the few whose power is mostly intact after the war. And when that happens, it’s over for us and our experiment in government.” 


	2. The Messenger

Byleth sought the messenger once again. The white stone of the houses blushed briefly with the light of the setting sun, before it sank behind the mountains. The air seemed to freeze almost immediately. Her breath floated like a veil in front of her face. As she passed through the central square she noticed Acheron scuttling along opposite her. His eager stride was punctuated with the clack of his ornate cane. A couple of finely dressed retainers strolled behind him, talking. Byleth had the notion to call out to them, but bit back the impulse, remembering that she should be leaving behind her coarse habits. Something about Acheron’s manner, his nervous—or excited—expression, stuck like a burr in her mind. But she had other things to do, and as she left the square for the side streets, so did Acheron. 

The messenger, his hood drawn up against the cold, came from around a corner before her. She stared past him as they walked towards each other, but something was amiss—he reached up and pulled his hood off. It took all of her will not to shout. 

“Claude!” she hissed. Claude held a finger at his lips, his eyes sparkling. 

“I have a message for you, my dear, please take it and read it now,” Claude said, handing her a little note and pulling his hood back up. With a soft laugh he slipped between two houses. 

“Claude!” Byleth laughed quietly to herself. She opened the letter; it was a map, pointing the way to a place called the Temple. The only other information there was a time: Hour of the Ox, the second bell at night. The only thing she knew about the Temple was what Hanneman had said to her during her orientation: if her students were caught at the Temple it was up to her to punish them, but the punishment should not be light. Like the Goddess Tower it was one of those places which was so forbidden that it attracted a lot of trespassers. The Academy had been suspended since the war, so there wasn’t any risk of her running into any students there. The map showed it a little ways into the mountains—a very out-of-the-way meeting spot. Like everything Claude did, there seemed to be more secrecy in the plan than necessary. 

☾

The forest this winter night was silent; her breath, the crunch of gravel under her boots, practically rang through the trees. The black trees opened up into a clearing white with frost and moonlight, where the Temple stood. It didn’t look much like a temple—it was nothing more than a beehive-shaped dome of rocks with a gaping doorway. Firelight softened the edges of the doorway, and smoke curled contentedly out of the little aperture at the top. She had to lean forward to enter. Inside, several vaguely rectangular stones ringed a deep fire pit. The smoke from countless fires there had turned the inside of the structure an almost lightless black, and in that soot names and messages were scratched, immortalizing otherwise forgotten nights. Reclining against one stone was Claude, looking out of place but nonetheless at home. Byleth rushed over, tripping over a stone slab as she went, and practically fell into his arms. 

“Easy there, Your Grace,” Claude laughed into her hair. 

“You’re maddening, you know that? Showing yourself and then making me hike up here hours later!” Claude just continued to laugh. “What is this place anyway?”

“You really never came here? Sorry—sometimes I forget that even though you’re my age you couldn’t carouse at school.” He opened his arms to embrace the temple’s humble magnificence. “This is the old Temple. Popular for all-night bonfires, drinking, f—uh—forbidden spell casting, the works. Anything you couldn’t get away with anywhere else, you could get away with here, given you managed to dodge the knights on the way up. Though, it did catch my attention for more reasons than just it being a good hiding place.” 

“What’s that?”

“Well, first, the name. For a ‘temple’ it’s not very grand. Names like that are often passed from generation to generation, sticking around while its meaning or provenance is forgotten. Maybe this place wasn’t a temple, exactly, perhaps it was the den of an oracle. Imagine the fire, strewn with herbs, and the oracle would sit here, and her attendants would sit there, and there…You can picture it, can’t you?”

“I can.”

“And the church disavows fortune-telling, so if it was an oracle’s den, it predates Seiros, making it a couple thousand years old, maybe? Anyway, this is all conjecture, but it’s fun to think about.” 

“The world before Seiros, you mean?” 

Claude made a noncommittal noise. 

“There was another reason?” Byleth asked. 

“Oh yes—the other reason this place caught my attention is that it really is good for spell casting. I don’t have the skill, but you should try.” 

Byleth sat up and called up a simple flame in her palm. The flame was steady and bright, and her power flowed through it very smoothly. It did feel oddly nice, but it was nothing extraordinary. Though, she found herself transfixed by the sight of it, familiar as it was—a flame redder than true fire, and airier—beautiful. The flame seemed deeper than normal, as if it bored into her palm. She turned her hand to look at it. Claude was saying something, but she didn’t listen to him. There seemed to be something dark in the middle of her hand, where the flame issued. As she stared it opened up. When she looked into it she felt something familiar, and all at once it hit her—the ineffable feeling of the flow of time, the power she grasped briefly as she used the pulse. She closed her hand and cut off the spell. 

“Byleth?” Claude said, concern sounding in his voice like an off-key note. “Did you see something? You were staring at your hand like you were mesmerized by something.” 

“Oh, I suppose I was,” Byleth said vaguely. Claude stared at her, but she turned her head to look at the fire. Fire in this world and the fire inside her, a spark, the beginning, mingled in her mind. If only she could still speak to Sothis. 

“Byleth, what’s up? You seem miles away right now.”

She leaned back into him. His presence seemed to her almost unreal, and the sturdiness of his body reminded her that he was, indeed, here. That she was here, with him.

“You’re always drawn to things like this place, things that people overlook, that contain some mystery, something hidden away or forgotten. Is that why you were drawn to me?”

Claude laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “I hope you’re not seriously comparing yourself to this bit of naïve architecture. You’re way more interesting than that. You didn’t notice their Highnesses tripping over themselves to get your favor when you rescued us from those bandits? If you didn’t, I’ll take that as the highest compliment I’ve ever received. It’s impossible not to be drawn to you.”

Something writhed around her heart, wringing it of all the love and fear she had ever felt. The feeling rushed out and flooded her body, all the way to her fingertips. Here, in this strange place, where the flames leaped, she thought she could feel potentialities brushing against her, so it made her clutch onto her own reality all the harder, with fierce gratitude.   
“Claude, let’s get out of here.”

He swept back a few stray strands of hair from her face and kissed her. “Yes, let’s.”   


☾

She awoke to the insistent scritching of a quill on paper. The bed’s hangings were drawn, but she could see the vague form of Claude sitting at her little desk through their fineness. He hunched slightly over whatever letter he was composing. She drew back the silken hangings and Claude turned to smile at her. 

“Sorry, I flew here so I woke up hours ago. Wyvern time…” He slipped the letter into an inner breast pocket in his coat. 

“Are you staying?”

“As long as I can. Things stabilized over in Almyra, I could take some time off. Besides, there’s no way I was going to miss all of the first session.”

“It’s been…interesting.”

“I’ve heard some of it, but I look forward to Lorenz’s whole report. By the way, I’ve pencilled a little meeting in your schedule for that.”

“Where are you going?”

“Gotta send this,” he patted his breast pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep myself hidden. I know a lot of the secret passages. Like this one!” He pulled a section of bookcase out, revealing a tight spiral staircase that went down into the depths. “Back soon, my dear,” he said as he went down the hidden stair, his voice echoing away. 

☾

Lorenz entered the cardinal’s room and upon seeing Claude, heaved a huge sigh and dropped his binder of notes on the table with a loud thwack. 

“A sudden meeting, and of course it’s because we’ve been blessed with the presence of the king of Almyra, who has not made any diplomatic overtures to anyone in Fódlan, I might add, since his coronation.”

“Listen, Lorenz, it’s not my fault all diplomatic channels to Fódlan were disbanded hundreds of years ago because no one in the church would respond.” Claude turned to Byleth and said in an undertone, “Has he been this tetchy to everyone or am I getting the special welcome package?” Byleth shook her head and mouthed, “Everyone.” 

“Whispering sweet nothings?” Lorenz said peevishly. “Claude, nothing against you, but I do not see the need to report anything to you. You relieved yourself of any official responsibilities in Fódlan and have yet to formally establish any responsibilities towards this country as a foreign ruler. Quite frankly, this is a waste of my time.”

“Nothing? Not even for a friend? I could help you out.”

“Excuse me—did I ask for help?” 

“That twitch in your eye—I would say that’s fatigue, no? You really want to shoulder this all yourself? You’ll get full credit.”

“As if you can take any credit, since you’re not supposed to be here at all,” Lorenz scoffed. He sighed, but softly, conceding. “But maybe you can help us with this whole bastard situation. Seems like something you would know a thing or two about.” 

“Hey, I am a perfectly legitimate heir to house Riegan!” Claude said, smiling impishly. “What’s this about a bastard?” 

“A ‘perfectly legitimate’ heir to the Faerghus throne appeared here, at Garreg Mach, in the procession,” Lorenz said wearily. “A number of Faerghus nobles have been meeting, trying to gather strength for a push to reinstate the monarchy there.” 

“You say that as if it’s not possible they’re legitimate.” Lorenz looked at Claude as if he was speaking nonsense. “Do your research next time. There are more paths to legitimacy in Faerghus than other places. They’re so obsessed with crests that there’s a system to fold bastard children with crests formally into a house. Generally, that also removes them from the line of succession, but they stop being a ‘bastard’. I can imagine, since Rufus was passed over for Lambert because he didn’t have a crest, that the house matriarch would adopt his bastard as a way of making up for it.” 

“Tell me, did you ever seriously consider inserting yourself into Faerghus nobility instead of the Alliance?” Lorenz said.

“Oh no, not seriously. Fhirdiad is too cold. I would be miserable eight months out of the year,” Claude said easily. “Besides, if I had, I wouldn’t have had your brilliant company.” 

“Ah, well, that would be a loss,” Lorenz said. “Anyway, I’d imagine that any body governing whether the girl is in the line of succession or not died with the rest of the house, so it’s not like we can just refer Edmond to Blaiddyd and get it sorted out.” 

Byleth’s secretary appeared at the door carrying a small piece of paper. “Your Grace, your correspondent has sent another letter.” She looked up at Claude briefly, who shot her a smile. She deposited the letter in front of Byleth and left. 

“What a good secretary, she didn’t react at all to me being here,” Claude said cheerfully. “Who’s this correspondent?” 

“Nadezhda,” said Byleth. 

“The Blaiddyd girl?” Lorenz said in shock.

“Before you admonish me, she came to me, okay?” Byleth said. 

“Lorenz, you haven’t been giving Byleth unwanted advice, have you?” Claude teased. Lorenz rolled his eyes. “Well, what did she message you about?” he asked eagerly. 

“It’s about Acheron...” Byleth said, furrowing her brow. “Seems he came to the inn last night to arrange a marriage.” 

“What?” Lorenz screeched. “That crest-grubbing ass!” 

“Bit rich coming from you,” Claude said breezily. 

“Oh shut up, Claude. I cannot abide the idea that Acheron could have any of that Blaiddyd land. It’s some of the best in Faerghus!”

“Look, would her mother take his offer? I know he took over some of the other minor lords’ land during the war, but he’s still pretty small fry. Surely her mother will hold out for a higher bid,” Claude said, face pinched with distaste. “Wait up, why is she even talking to you about her marriage prospects?” 

Byleth explained that Nadezhda had come to her, worried about her future. 

“Oh, but this is perfect!” Claude said, “Here Edmond is making these grand plans about the monarchy, while the girl herself is practically ready to run away. All we have to do is help her actually do it.” 

“Yes, but can we do that and also keep her safe?” Byleth pressed. 

Claude’s face lit up. “I think we can, I totally think we can!” 

☾

Edmond’s eager, open expression reminded Byleth of his dogs, those eminently trusting beagles, who would follow their master through anything. Around him stood his direct supporters, a group which had grown, but not by much, since the incident in the Blackbird Inn’s courtyard. They had the easy air of a battalion after a quick, decisive battle in which they had suffered no losses. They were almost exclusively from Faerghus, the only exception being a lady whose land in Leicester touched the border. Edmond’s indirect supporters were more numerous and came from every corner of the continent, since they, like Lorenz, had immediately seen the potential of returning to self-rule after hearing of Edmond’s daft plan. They had forged bonds of shared skepticism of the council, and whether or not they agreed with Edmond’s vision, they were happy to use its divisiveness to their advantage. Byleth felt at this moment that she couldn’t turn that tide. She did know, however, that she could make Edmond’s victory less complete, and shake that self-important confidence. 

“Lord Edmond,” Byleth said, “I hoped you would have come to me sooner to discuss this. What you propose has far-reaching consequences.” 

“Deepest apologies, Your Grace,” said Edmond, bowing, though he could not suppress the impatience in his voice. “I wanted to be sure.”

“And are you?”

Edmond hesitated. “I have spoken to her mother, and she is supportive of the idea. That is why I have come to ask for your blessing.”

The time has come.

“I imagine you’re thinking of Loog, asking me for this.”

Edmond smiled. He really did have a winning smile, and his fine features were hewn to a hero’s standard. His unwavering confidence gave heart to the people around him. Were he a standard bearer for some other cause, she would be happy to have him here. As it was now, she would have to crush him. 

“Of course, Faerghus has ever been the church’s cherished country. Please support us in rebuilding Faerghus as it was, before this terrible war.” He bowed his head, waiting for fortune’s blow. 

“I cannot.” 

The assembled lords murmured, and when Edmond rose his face was gray. 

“But—she is a Blaiddyd, it’s a miracle she is alive! There is no one else fit to lead us. She was given to us by the goddess!” 

“Lord Gloucester and the other members of the congress have endeavored to show you that there is another way: to build mutual understanding between the houses and lead by consensus. Since you have been here, you have closed your ears to this, and followed this boy’s wish to be a knight to a queen.”

Edmond’s face was blank with shock. He said to himself, in dawning understanding, “She was right.” When he heard his own words he swallowed air and shook his head. “If that is how you see it, I should have never presumed to have your blessing. But know I am utterly serious: Faerghus can only be lead by those chosen by the goddess.” 

“That includes Dimitri?”

One old man stepped forward and said, “Dimitri abandoned his country…” 

“Don’t speak ill of him,” Edmond said weakly, waving away his compatriot’s words. 

“And what if the goddess chose you, instead?” 

Edmond looked almost frightened. 

“What do you know of Loog?” she continued. 

“What do you mean? The story is clear enough, the Archbishop made him the king of her Holy Kingdom—”

“For the mark of Blaiddyd, or his initiative?” Byleth said gently, as if guiding a student through magical theory. 

“He was of the Heroes’ lines…” he said, not following.

“And surely that gave him more resources to be bold. Money for armies, support of the other houses. There wasn’t anything predestined about it, no matter how the legend frames it. Lord Edmond, look at me; I gave you this opportunity to build something new, like Loog was given the crown. Is the work of the Archbishop not the work of the goddess? Is your work with the congress not enough of an honor to Faerghus?”

The murmurings in the room rose and fell, the lords’ eyes, hard and soft, fixed on Edmond pinned in the center, burning like a beacon. 

☾

Claude left the next day. He made his usual assurances to Byleth, the low-simmering dread she always felt hearing them roiling in her belly, no matter how urgently he tried to comfort her. One of the last things he said before taking off on his wyvern was that when he returned things would be different. He was done sneaking and hiding. She closed her eyes, because even though she believed he would return soon, part of her was steeling herself for another long absence, and she didn’t want to show him that fear. She leaned into him and listened to his heart beat. What was it like, to have a heartbeat? It felt, at that moment, like just another thing that separated them. 

Back at the monastery, Byleth, in her low mood, noticed Acheron’s sour expression. As they passed by each other, their gazes met, and his was flat with anger. As soon as she saw Lorenz coming to meet her, eyes sparkling with malicious glee, she knew what had happened. 

“The woman showed some sense and rejected his offer,” Lorenz said. 

“I wish you would use more respect when you speak about her or her daughter.” 

“Oh, yes—Lady Graeme”—hollow emphasis on “lady”—“rightly surmised that Acheron is not much of a catch for her wild daughter.”

“Miss Blaiddyd,” Byleth prompted.

“Yes, of course,” said Lorenz impatiently. “We’ll have to keep our eyes out for more suitors, obviously, until Claude gets back, but at least I won’t have nightmares about Acheron being a prince of Faerghus anymore. And about that royalty thing—Edmond’s been less aggressive lately.” 

“I wonder what changed?” Byleth said, slyly. “You know, you were right.”

“About what?” Lorenz asked, leaning in. 

“He was using Loog as a template. He really believed I was going to give him my blessing to continue on his path because I’m the Archbishop and the Archbishop made Faerghus. Why would I deviate from that template?” 

“Why indeed!” he laughed. “That poor deluded man.” 

After their meeting, she watched Lorenz strut away in a way that reminded her of the arrogant teen she had met all those years ago. It was the walk of a man who had been given everything he needed, and much of what he wanted; the same domineering bearing that Edmond had. 

She had a thought that felt as if it came directly from Sothis: humans always found a way to hurt themselves, and couch it in terms of necessity. Things must be done as they have always been done. As if they simply cannot tear their eyes away from the path that was shown to them.


	3. The Envoy

The next few days the clouds lifted, and a hard frost made the mountains gleam in the sun. The congress made good progress, agreeing on more lenient rules for houses that de-emphasized crests. It was a relief for many, including some of the great houses, as the power of crests had been flowing away for centuries, becoming more muted generation to generation. Plans for distribution of resources were made, and the lords whose lands were slow to recover from the war came away with renewed hope. Byleth similarly felt her spirits rise, though her worries for Claude and Nadezhda stayed as sharp as ever. 

Nadezhda had been sending her brief messages regularly since the near miss with Acheron. Sometimes they were just minor gripes about her mother, or about the various louts—her words—that came to see them at the inn. Other times they were a bit longer, and in a rambling, daydreamy way described the life she wanted. In these daydreams she would leave Fódlan entirely, where her name meant nothing, or she would leave the name, and become only herself and nothing more. Then one day a message came and it said only this:

She wants me to be a queen. And him, my prince. You know the one. I think she will make me do it. 

So Edmond hadn’t taken Byleth’s offer. He’s forging ahead anyway. Lorenz reported that Edmond had sent a messenger out along the road to Faerghus. Byleth took this news calmly, but she could not help but wish keenly that Claude was well on his way back. In the meantime, she would have to find a way to meet with Nadezhda. 

The next day the usual note did not arrive. She waited until evening, thinking perhaps Nadezhda had been delayed, but night fell and no message came. She sent a messenger to the inn, and he came back and told her that Lady Graeme and her daughter had left. The night closed in around the lamp on her desk. Not for the first time in her life, she felt very small.

In the darkness of her quarters, the wind sighing in the windows, her mind wandered to the old temple, the ash-filled pit, the sooty walls, the leaning stones. The fire burning through her hand, the sense of something enormous, unseen, lying on the other side of it, a whole invisible landscape pressing on her eyes. A whole flow of time that ran away from her. She rolled over, not finding comfort in her bed, and rose to go on a walk. She found getting to sleep hard, most nights. If she could perhaps clear her head a little… 

As she moved through the monastery, listening to the soft calls of owls, she imagined Nadezhda in a carriage, on some unknown road, awaiting her fate. What fate that was exactly, she couldn’t imagine. Lorenz’s intelligence hadn’t come in yet. She could imagine Edmond’s look of triumph clearly. These images swirled in her head, unceasing. She walked to the library and pulled a boring book from the shelves, sat down and lit a candle to read until she was numb. 

She saw Rhea walk through a darkened doorway. She gleamed, as if her skin were made of pearl, like the Immaculate One’s scales. 

“Professor,” she said, in the same maddeningly soft tone she always used with her. 

“Byleth,” she corrected her.

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head, heavy with her jeweled headdress and fragrant lilies. 

“Byleth,” she repeated. 

“My…” Rhea began, walking towards her, her pale green eyes wet with tears.

“Don’t say it,” Byleth warned. 

“…Mother…” she said, laying her hands on her shoulders and leaning in to her. Byleth put her hands on Rhea’s shoulders in turn and pushed her away. 

“Stop. I’m Byleth, I was never Sothis. Sothis isn’t me, she’s gone.”

“Mother,” she said softly, her head drooping, tears sparkling. 

“Stop!” Byleth said desperately, starting to cry, overwhelmed. “You did this. You made me to follow your lead, to become what you needed. I did it, I did. But I didn’t do it for you. You bound her to me and she had nothing but contempt for you, for what you did. I didn’t ask for this!” 

Rhea gripped her harder. “Byleth!” 

Byleth jolted awake. Seteth’s hand was on her shoulder. “Byleth!” he said quietly, gently shaking her. She tasted salt, the desk was wet with tears. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes…” she said groggily. “I’m fine.” 

Seteth smiled gently at her. “Well, if that is the case, would you join me for breakfast?” Byleth just nodded, and stumbled after him down the hall. 

The kitchen was bustling at dawn, readying everything for the coming day. The warm air was filled with the delicious smells of pastries and sausage. It reminded her of the day she had snuck Nadezhda in, and with it came the regret that she had let her get swept up in this, hadn’t stopped Edmond when she had the chance. So much for being subtle. Seteth placed a plate of pastries filled with jam in front of her. They ate in companionable silence. She got the sense that Seteth didn’t much care to talk just for talking’s sake. 

“What do you know about the old temple?” Byleth ventured. 

Seteth stopped with his pastry halfway to his mouth, frowning. He put it down. “Not much, to be honest. There aren’t any records of its being built, nor any local knowledge of its purpose. What I do know about it is that it’s a place of great power, like the throne. Though we tried to keep the students away from it, it never concerned me much that they went there.”

“Why?”

“Simple: only someone possessing great power can utilize it.” 

“But you don’t know what it does?”

“No, I can only feel the power there, behind something I don’t suspect anyone can unlock. Did you feel it?” 

“Ha, I knew you would figure out I went there if I asked. I did feel it.”

Seteth smiled, but it was a wan smile. “Maybe you could use it. I would caution against trying though. Please, for our sakes, try not to indulge your curiosity this time. It could be very dangerous, we have no way of knowing what will happen.” Byleth acquiesced, though in her heart it called to her, the gate of fire. She knew she had the key. 

☾

That week, Edmond announced that he was quitting the congress and going to Fhirdiad. The assembled lords of the congress grumbled, and a few outright jeered. “I encourage you all to follow your hearts,” he said, putting on a condescending, pious air, “If you believe in this assembly, please make it a success, and guide Fódlan with care and love. I however, must follow my faith, and I can only do that in my own homeland. Faerghus needs me, along with all her faithful. Please join me, if you feel moved to.” 

“It really doesn’t” shouted Sylvain, “need any more self-righteous pricks!”

Edmond glared at Sylvain, who was halfway out of his seat, from across the room. Several Faerghus lords erupted in laughter. Lorenz rapped the bell on his podium with surprising force, shocking the hall into greater uproar. When order had been restored, Edmond stepped to the floor and stared Sylvain down. “As the son of the great Margrave, I would have expected more from you. But you have no faith, integrity, or even class.”

“Lord Edmond, I’ll have you removed, if you keep this up,” Lorenz shouted, banging the bell again. 

Sylvain snarled and leapt out of the hands that tried to restrain him. He vaulted over the tier of seats below and landed heavily on the floor. Edmond squared his shoulders. Lorenz shouted at Sylvain to stop but he put up his fists and closed the the distance between him and Edmond with astonishing speed. Edmond went down, his expression nonplussed when Sylvain’s fist connected with his jaw. Two guards, stomping heavily in their armored shoes grabbed Sylvain, who made a showy effort to shake them off. The insistent ringing of the bell did nothing to bring order. 

Edmond’s friends lifted him up as he came to. Byleth reached for him as they approached her, but he swatted her hand away. “Please accept my blessing at our parting,” she said, but Edmond shook his head. “You’re no Archbishop,” he said in an undertone. His friends looked ashamed, refusing to look at her. “We can rebuild without you.” 

☾

“I need to go to Fhirdiad. I can’t wait for Claude any longer,” Byleth said. “I thought you had this under control.” 

Lorenz, leaning against the bookshelf in her office, sighed heavily. “Well, I did not expect him to reject you outright, and publicly, too. I wonder if he will go to the Western Church?” 

It didn’t much matter to Byleth what he did, exactly. Sylvain felt the same, because he scoffed, “He’s gotten the backing of my father, I know it. He can do anything at this point.” 

“Where do you think Graeme has gone with Nadezhda?” Byleth asked Sylvain. 

“I doubt the stewards of Fhirdiad castle will let Edmond’s people in, even if they claim to be with the royal heir. If he has the Margrave’s backing, it’s pretty likely that they’re not in the city itself but the hunting lodge at Cold Creek. It’s not far, maybe a couple miles north of the capital.” 

Byleth nodded. “Lorenz, Sylvain, hold down the fort. I’m going there to get her back.” 

“Professor—you can’t be thinking of going there alone? What if the Western Church, or the Margrave, ambushes you?” Lorenz said. Byleth smiled a little at his lapse into his old manner of addressing her. 

“They won’t know I’m coming,” Byleth said brightly. “But if I take too long, feel free to launch a rescue mission.” Lorenz huffed, concern plain on his face. “You think it’s wise to march up there in a big group? I can keep a low profile.” Indeed, she could make herself practically invisible, if she needed to—or just wanted to eavesdrop. 

“Please stay safe,” Sylvain said, “and come back soon.”  
  
Byleth reviewed Claude’s notes about low-traffic routes around Fódlan, made a plan and packed up that afternoon. She slipped a few artifacts out of the monastery’s vault: some fleet boots and some enchanted rings. She briefly considered retrieving the Sword of the Creator from the mausoleum, but figured she could escape from a monster with her boots, and not engage. Though she didn’t anticipate being on the road for long, it was going to be cold, so she took a whole block of hard cheese with her. She had Sylvain give her detailed directions to Cold Creek. That evening she felt good, and fell asleep readily, as if her body knew she needed to recharge.  
  
The next day she was well on her way north. The valleys on the northern side of the mountains were dotted with squat cabins, the plush smoke of their hearths hung over the dark copses and silvery grass. She ran, the wind whistling in her ears. Finally out of those archbishops’ clothes stiff with pomp, she felt more human. The exertion felt exquisite. Occasionally she passed land which had been broken by the wagon wheels of a supply line, and empty houses, the occupants having fled long ago. Dead grape vines clung to their collapsed trellises. In some places, she could feel the pressure of loss acutely. 

The land rolled beneath her feet. A hunter looked up from his kill to see her flash past, like a fiend fleeing the saints. The snow got deeper, forcing her to onto more well-traveled roads, so she slipped on a stealth ring and continued, weaving through carts carrying firewood and couriers on their way between house territories. When she finally stopped for the day she ate quickly and fell asleep immediately.

On the third day at dawn she saw Fhirdiad’s terraced city rising from the Tailtean plains, deep in snow. She swapped her fleet boots for her standard traveling boots and removed her ring, and joined the slow-moving traffic into the city. She figured she was a least a day ahead of Edmond at this point. The road was fragrant with horse droppings, wood chips and the travelers who had been traveling for weeks. Through the gate the city lay, all steadfast granite and slate, its harsh angles softened by drifts of snow. She pulled down her hood to look around at all the sharply pitched roofs, the tiny but finely glazed windows, and the snow swirling out of the brightening sky. 

She found a stable renting out elk, animals better suited for snow than horses. The man who gave her an animal marveled at her hair. “That’s a fine color miss, I’m sure the guys are crazy about you,” he said, chuckling. “Some people have all the luck.” 

Cold Creek flowed through a vale in the hills above Fhirdiad. She rode into their forested embrace. If Jeralt were riding next to her it would be like any other day, as they crisscrossed the continent at the beck and call of whoever needed and could pay for their ability to kill quickly and efficiently. Since the end of the war she had not found any excuse to pick up her weapons, even to train. The Sword of the Creator she had returned to Sothis’ tomb, and laying it down filled her with a grief that was less sadness than anger. It—and Sothis, for all her power—had failed her when she had tried to pull Jeralt from the grip of his fate. It had cut down Edelgard—but there was nothing else it could do. The life it once held was gone, its remnants refashioned into an instrument of death. Now it lay in Sothis’ silence. What was she, without the sword, without Sothis, without the title, the church, or Fódlan? Maybe she would never know, but she knew something of what Nadezhda felt about her name, and she would grant the girl a fate free of it. 

The dark oaks opened up into a frozen meadow, and a house nestled against monumental boulders huddled at the base of a cliff. Its small windows glowed with warm light. The snuffling of the elk in a stable off to one side broke the oppressive silence of the snowy woods. She dismounted, and tied the animal up to the fence bordering the meadow. There were no guards. She climbed up to the huge front door, finely carved with a pattern of ferns and thistles. She rapped on the door, wondering if there were any servants anywhere nearby; the house did not seem ready for any visitors, enemy or not. 

She heard a bell ring somewhere deep in the house. After a long few moments, a slot in the door opened, and eyes with wrinkled lids peered out at her. “Who are you?” a gruff voice said from the slot.

“Archbishop Byleth,” she replied. The eyes widened. 

“How can I know you’re telling the truth?” the voice said. 

She looked down at herself, in her simple cloak and furred boots. “You can’t, you’ll just have to trust me.” 

The slot shut with a click. She took a deep breath. The door creaked as it swung open a crack. “Come in then,” the voice said.  
  
She sidled in. The old woman shut the door quickly behind her. “What’s your business here at the lodge, then?” the woman asked. 

“I came here at Miss Nadezhda’s request.”

“Did you now?” the woman said, snorting. “Full of surprises, that one. Between you and I, she’s been a terror. The head butler’s ready to kill her for occupying too much of the kitchen maids’ time.” Byleth raised her eyebrows. The woman just chuckled to herself. “If you’re here to take her off our hands I think we’d all be grateful.” 

She took her pack and led her to a salon off the main hall. The house was low, hunkered like an animal, like all buildings in the north of Faerghus were, to maintain heat. After being on the road for days, it was more claustrophobic than comforting to be indoors. The daylight was already beginning to fail, closing the room in further. The halls rambled around like a warren. The woman pulled a bell, summoning a sleepy servant bearing a cup of hot cider. 

“I’ll fetch the lady for you. Please make yourself at home,” she said.

Lady Graeme came in, a rigid smile on her face. 

“To what do I owe this honor?” she said, sitting on the edge of a densely upholstered bench. 

“I must ask you to not go through with Edmond’s plan to crown your daughter.”

Lady Graeme’s pasted-on smile vanished. “She has been offered the highest honor, and you come here and tell me to reject it?”

“She doesn’t want it,” Byleth said.

“A child’s whim,” Lady Graeme said.

“If you feel that way, then why give her a crown? Do so and you subject your entire country to her whims,” Byleth said.

“The moment I first saw you, I knew: you’re nothing more than a naïve child. Of course you would drag yourself up here to argue that her hesitation is more important than the honor that caused it. It’s clear to me that given the chance you would shirk your responsibilities as Archbishop completely. My daughter is stronger than that, stronger than you. She’ll rise to the challenge. She won’t be alone either—“

“That’s right, Edmond will rule by proxy.”

“Yes, how inconvenient for you, since you don’t much like each other,” Lady Graeme sneered. “You abandoned Faerghus. You would rather have us wither away as a little state, ruled by gormless statesmen, than do your duty. You subjugated yourself to Duke Riegan and his schemes, stripped the highest seat in the land of its power. That Archbishop Rhea hasn’t come out of Zanado breathing fire is beyond me.” 

“Funny, she gave me this seat because she knew I would use it to protect as many people as I could, not because I would bow to a single man saying he knows the will of the goddess better than the goddess herself,” Byleth said quietly. Lady Graeme’s look of contempt only deepened. 

“Lord Edmond is a great man,” Lady Graeme said. “Get out.” 

“I’m not leaving until I can speak to Nadezhda,” Byleth said. 

“Get out,” she repeated, standing up. 

Byleth stared her down. Lady Graeme began to shake, her delicate hands balled into white fists. “You cannot take her from me!” she screeched. “You cannot! You soulless mercenary, you heartless, evil child!” She bore down on Byleth. Dimly aware of Graeme’s hands, opening up into claws, reaching for her face, she caught the lady’s wrists. Graeme struggled in her grip for a moment before realizing how foolish it was to try to overpower a woman whose grip had been forged in battle. Byleth let go as soon as she started to pull away. The lady stumbled back and collapsed onto the couch. A single sob shook her body. 

Byleth went and kneeled next to her. Lady Graeme turned her face away, like a child whose emotions are too much for themselves, and have to be hidden from others. “My lady, when I first saw you and your daughter, I was so curious. You came to me, so desperate for an answer to a question you could not bring yourself to ask me. I still don’t know what it could be, what I could say that would make all your pain go away.” Lady Graeme just breathed heavily, trying to control her crying. 

“I can’t make it go away. No matter how hard I try, the earth still drinks up blood, and tears. You’re right, I am unhappy, I would like to leave the headdress, the pomp, the ceremony, even though it brings comfort to people. I just see my own limitations in it all.” 

She turned towards Byleth, her face shining. “I— She— She won’t speak to me. I’ve already lost her, haven’t I?” 

“I don’t think so, I don’t think so,” Byleth said, touching her hand. 

A harsh clanging bell rang from outside. The old servant woman rushed into the room. Lady Graeme bolted to her feet. 

“Lady Graeme, your daughter—“ 

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” The woman nodded vigorously. “She hasn’t been joining me for meals, she could have left hours ago,” Lady Graeme said, terrified. 

Byleth grabbed her pack from the servants and went to the stables to get her elk. The stablehands warned her it was getting dark, the elk might not be able to see, it was too dangerous. She let them keep the elk and put on her march ring instead, hoping that she could find Nadezhda soon enough. The dark woods loomed before her. Little dry flakes of snow flicked out of the steel gray sky. It was almost erased by snowfall, but Byleth could make out a little trough in the snow where someone had waded down the hillside. 

She called up a flame which hovered above her head. The woods were so quiet she imagined that if she stood still enough, she might be able to track the girl by the sound of her breathing. She pressed on, following the trail. It wound here and there through the trees. She felt afraid, a feeling that came to her so seldom, even in those early battles. If only she had acted sooner, and not wasted so much time hiding her intentions. The trail, not much more distinct than it had been near the lodge, dropped into a hollow surrounded by larches. The snow was very deep here. She stepped forward cautiously, as it was a prime place for snow wells, which could swallow a person up. A dark smudge caught her eye, she edged towards it. It was a hole, and seeing it her whole body tensed in fear. Though her wind magic was weak she grabbed for it, and pulled the spell up out of her with as much force as she could muster, and blasted the drifts of snow away from the roots of the trees. 

Nadezhda laid curled up at the larch’s roots. A single, tiny flame hovered near her face, melting the snow into glittering beads in her hair. Byleth slid down and picked her up. She was alive, but very cold. The lodge’s guards stumbled into the hollow behind her. “Oh thank the goddess,” one exclaimed. 

“Get me some wood,” Byleth commanded the guards. She cleared the snow from the bottom of the hollow and dug a trough to make a large fire in. They worked as quickly as possible to build a six foot long fire and a little hut of branches next to it to lay Nadezhda in and warm her up. After a couple hours and several vulneraries later she began to stir. 

“Byleth?” she said uncertainly. “Am I dead?”

Byleth shook her head. “We’ll get you back home as soon as it’s safe to move you.” 

“I don’t...”

“I know. Edmond will be here tomorrow, won’t he? I think maybe your mother won’t be so eager to be a part of his plans anymore.” 

She smiled slightly, sighed and closed her eyes. When she was warm enough, the guards wrapped her up in furs and carried her back up to the house. It was slow going, and by the time they got back everyone was exhausted. They placed Nadezhda next to the hearth, and as soon as Byleth laid down nearby she was asleep. 

☾

When she awoke, she saw Lady Graeme sitting on the hearthstones gazing at the fire. She joined her there, listening to the crackling of the coals and Nadezhda’s breathing. The girl stirred and looked up at them, blinking in confusion. 

“Where?” she said, blearily. As she slowly took the room in, her face fell.

“Oh, Nadia,” Lady Graeme said, “I’m so sorry…” 

Nadezhda sighed and draped her arm over her face. “Would you have listened to me, ever? If all this hadn’t happened?” 

Graeme looked away, with no courage to answer, either to lie or tell the truth. 

“Ma,” Nadezhda said, sitting up. “I only ever wanted my name—your name—I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted to be me.” 

“I know, but you could have been…” 

“What? Queen of a country that doesn’t really exist anymore? I can’t remake it. I just want to live my own life.”

“And you will,” Lady Graeme said quietly. “I’ll tell him it’s all off.” 

Nadezhda laid back down and began to cry silently. Lady Graeme gathered the girl up in her arms and they sat there entwined, still. 

“Thank you for bringing her back to me, Your Grace.” Lady Graeme said to Byleth.   
“Byleth.”

Lady Graeme smiled. “Thank you, Byleth.” 

☾

The journey back to Garreg Mach was considerably more pleasant than her trip to Cold Creek. They were packed up and ready to go by the time Edmond and Margrave Gautier arrived at the lodge. Byleth and Lady Graeme weathered Edmond’s impotent fury, the latter conducting herself with such composure as to put to shame any noble. The Margrave just watched on in curious contempt, though Byleth could not decide how much of that was for Edmond or herself. She was glad to be clear of the vale and the lodge and the men, high on her elk and wrapped in furs for the long journey. Nadezhda whistled as they rounded a bend and the landscape opened out into a view of the Tailtean plains and Fhirdiad. The windows of Fhirdiad castle were silver in the morning sun. “Imagine, that could have been mine,” Nadezhda said, laughing. “What a fine prison.” 

They stayed a night in Fhirdiad in one of the little inns. Byleth hadn’t brought much money with her, and she was loathe to use her status to get lodging. Instead she, Lady Graeme and Nadezhda ate pickled vegetable and game stew in the loud common room while snow pelted from the night sky. Later she would hear from Lorenz that Edmond and the Margrave had sent errand boys to search for them, but they had gone to the castle and the abbey and found no trace of them. So they left Fhirdiad unimpeded, and a few days later arrived safe at Garreg Mach. 

The mild winter was already beginning to loosen its grip. The town’s streets were full of dirty slush, and the dull pewter sky promised a flurry or two, but it was nothing like the deep, treacherous Faerghus winter. The relief among them was palpable. Once she saw Lady Graeme and her daughter put up in the Blackbird Inn once again, she rushed up to the monastery. Lorenz yelped as she burst into his office. 

“Great saints, Byleth! Care to warn someone about your imminent arrival?” Lorenz said, laughing. “Great news! A few envoys from Almyra arrived in the last week. They’ve been very eager to see you. I’ve been keeping them busy with tours and whatnot.” 

“And Claude?”

“How about we meet with them first?” Lorenz said, with a slight sly smile. 

Lorenz took her to the common room. The two envoys sat in wingback chairs on either side of the hearth. They stood, and Byleth had to stifle a laugh because one of them was Claude, wearing the rather stiff Almyran officials’ tunic and ceremonial dagger. They both bowed, Claude winking at Byleth as he did so. Byleth burned with good-humored annoyance as she and Lorenz conducted diplomatic business while pretending they didn’t know who Claude was. As soon as it was over she pulled him aside to laugh helplessly into his shoulder. “You’re driving me up the wall!”

“I’m sorry, it was worth it though. Also, sorry for not making it back in time. What a rescue though! As always, I’m impressed by your strength. So, I was thinking, we don’t need to spirit Nadezhda away to Almyra anymore, but perhaps she would want to go anyway? Maybe we could reopen the academy, train her up as a diplomat? What do you think?” 

“I like that idea. We could make a new academy, not so focused on combat. Teach leadership and collaboration. Saints know the nobles could use a little education in the latter.”

“Lorenz said tensions in the congress calmed down a lot since Edmond left. That said, I’ve always valued things like the congress and Leicester’s council because it allows tensions that don’t end up in armies being raised. So they can fight all they like, for all I care. But they’ve made a lot of progress. It’s shaping up to be a very nice, slightly contentious alliance of houses.” 

Byleth sighed. “For a little bit there I wasn’t sure it was going to come together.”

“It worried me too, but somehow, with you around, things always work out.” 

A small shock ran through Byleth, hearing this. Her conversation with Seteth about the goddess flashed across her mind like birds flushed from the grass. The gate of flame. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Claude said. “You look like you saw a ghost. How about you get some rest? You’ve been traveling for too long.” 

They slipped into the secret passages. She carried a flame before them, its light shifting strangely across the rough stones of the narrow passage. 

“Hey so,” Claude said, his profile silhouetted against the fire light, “I’m going to be here as an envoy from now on.”

“What about being king?” 

“You think there was ever really a king of Almyra? Sure, I am the king, but what’s a king gotta do but delegate? I have a big team who’s actually running the country. A king goes to ceremonies. That’s it. This is my home.”

Byleth smiled in the dark.


	4. The Oracle

The woods stirred, a light breeze tossed the pine boughs. The air, damp and fragrant, had the whisper of spring. The curve of white stones of the old Temple gleamed between the tree trunks. She approached it, full of trepidation. In the daylight the darkness of its interior was almost unreal. She placed some dry wood in the ash-filled hollow at its center, and carefully built a hot fire. As the heat built, she began to feel it, the edges of the gateway. She closed her eyes and reached for it, stepped through it. The heat of the fire began to recede, as if she were being pulled away from it. She opened her eyes. 

She stood in perfect darkness. It wasn’t frightening, like the void she had been thrown into by Solon. It felt natural, almost familiar, like returning to a place she had always known. She walked forward. A hazy intimation of light floated before her. She pulled the light towards her, or walked towards it, it didn’t matter how, the light only grew brighter. As the light grew she could see something familiar in it. Like the back of her hand, the sound of her own voice resonating in her skull, the fine feeling of moving her own body. She pulled herself through into the light.

She stood staring at the surface of the fishing pond. The water, still and a little icy, reflected her face. Only… not her face. Not exactly. His face. He pushed a few stray hairs behind his ears. After a moment’s confusion he remembered where he was going. Up to the audience chamber. Time to go.

He was excited. When was the last time he felt that? It came to him in waves. His whole body sang, resonating like the cathedral did with the voices of the choir. Spring was coming, and the long slow suffering of winter was going to be over. And Claude was going to be here, back from Almyra. He smoothed his tunic, and checked his posture. 

He walked into the audience chamber. A man in a huge cape of white wolf’s fur stood before the empty dias, waiting with his back turned. Hearing footsteps the man turned. 

“Dimitri!” he exclaimed. Dimitri bowed, looking a bit confused.

“Did you forget I was here?” Dimitri said, smiling uncertainly. 

“I—no, I didn’t,” he said, similarly confused. 

“Come,” he said, opening up his arms. He slid into them, embracing him. “Been a while, no?” It felt longer than it should have. When had he seen him last? He had seen him, running through a field, hell bent, towards an imperial phalanx, at Gronder… no, that’s not right. He had seen him in Fhirdiad, when they had received the first envoys from Almyra. That was only a few months ago, not years. Frisson of nerves. He breathed deeply, unsteadily. “What’s wrong?” he heard Dimitri say. 

What was wrong? The envoys were arriving, and a procession of other Almyran officials, all dressed in stiff, gleaming olive tunics and gold silk pants, with jeweled daggers at their hips. Dimitri stood on the dias below the Archbishop’s seat, wringing the officials’ hands in his unnerving too-friendly manner. Claude finally stepped through the door, resplendent in silks and a marten-fur ruff. His face was pinched a little from discomfort, he visibly shook from the cold. Though the monks had placed several braziers in the audience chamber it was still quite cold. Dimitri grabbed him, saying in an uncomfortably jocular tone, “You old fox, look at you! A damn prince and you never told us.” 

“Please, Dimitri, anyone could have figured it out, even you, if you were curious enough.” 

Dimitri laughed. “Flattery, like always.”  
  
Claude looked up at him, sitting on the Archbishop’s seat. 

“Your Grace,” he said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. The moment they locked eyes he felt his whole being shift, a strange shock, like he had been woken up abruptly from a deep sleep. He could see it, the monastery, gilded in yellow banners, the nobles of every house pouring in. An alliance, and Claude there, by his side. The scene before him began to fall into a haze, something seemed to be calling him. A familiar voice. “You look cold,” he heard Dimitri say, “take this.” The scent of wolf skin…

He walked forward in the haze. She came out and took his hand. “Byleth,” she said, introducing herself. From outside he looked smaller than she had felt, being him. He nodded. “I thought so,” he said. “Byleth.” He touched his chest, and they bowed to each other. 

“What do you think is out there?” he pointed forward, where the hazy light began to fall into darkness again. “It feels less familiar, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” she said. “Can you hear that?”

“Yeah,” he said, keenly interested. “A sort of rhythm. It’s familiar, somehow, but I can’t think of what it is.” 

They pressed on, but found it hard going. The sound became more distinct, but stayed on the edge of recognition. She wracked her brains for it, a word she couldn’t find. 

“It’s a—“ he began.

“A heartbeat,” she finished. They glanced at each other, both frightened and excited. “Come on!” 

They ran forward, finding it quite a bit easier now. The heartbeat began to vibrate inside them as the darkness enveloped them. They shouted with joy—it was theirs! Their own heart! 

She opened her eyes. She was standing in a huge corridor in Enbarr’s palace. Her heart was pounding, though she didn’t know why. She turned to see Edelgard striding down the hall, her prim boots making no sound on the rich red carpeting. 

“Look at you, you’re positively giddy,” Edelgard said, taking her hand. “I understand. We finally have contact with Almyra, after the church blocked contact for centuries. It really is a new day for the world. We can take this beyond Fódlan, just like Claude wanted.” A shadow passed over her lilac eyes. “Sometimes I think about what we could have done differently. That day… it shouldn’t have been his last. We didn’t really have a quarrel, yet I understand he couldn’t just give Deirdru over. A shame, really.” 

They walked, the hall stretched before her. She felt off-kilter, a fresh wave of grief where there should have been old pain, scarred over. And in her too, confusion, as she had just seen Claude, his shoulders draped with wolf fur. When had that happened? She had just kissed him, hemmed in by stone. Where had that happened? Edelgard’s small, gloved hand in hers brought her back. Her heart was so loud, was it always like this? 

The audience chamber was impossibly tall, glinting with lamps. The warm sun streamed in through the huge windows. The Almyrans kneeled in a neat formation, watching her expectantly. “Great Emperor,” one envoy began. Hubert stood off to one side of the chamber, in a dark corner. She felt as if she was falling forward, and reached out to catch herself. Byleth and her companion, Byleth, caught her.

They stood, all three of them, in a kind of twilight. Of all of them, this last iteration of themselves was the least distinct. She looked around, but she seemed not to be able to see them. “Hello,” Byleth said, putting her hand on her shoulder. The one with a heartbeat brought her cheek to the hand on her shoulder, a tender gesture that brought tears to her own eyes. 

“Sothis?” she asked.

“No,” Byleth said, “It’s just us.”

“That heartbeat,” he said, “it’s wonderful. I can feel your love in it.” 

She blushed. “I know. But you know, I can feel yours too, even if you don’t have a heartbeat. Why did you come here, and bring me with you?” she asked them.   
“I had to know what it meant to love someone. What it meant for everyone, not just me. There’s something frightening in it. I’m not sure I’m less frightened, seeing what I saw here.” 

“I know what you mean,” he said. “We simply can’t choose everyone. Not like Sothis. Her power will only flow where we focus it.”

She bowed her head. “And our losses, our anger…” 

“We tried to stop Dimitri,” the two of them said to the third. 

He said along with the other, “We tried to speak to Edelgard.”

Still another two of them said, “Claude should be here, with us, he shouldn’t have gone, he shouldn’t have died.” 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” 

The three of them leaned on each other, overwhelmed, their tears flowing together. “Whatever we do by ourselves, it’ll never be enough. Whatever we do together, will be. It will be enough, though we won’t see it. It’s enough.” 

Her face felt hot. She opened her eyes. The fire had gone lower, but still it crackled merrily in the temple’s hearth. She felt her breath surround her still heart. It beat once, reverberating through her body. She doubled over, gasping. A few tears squeezed out of her eyes. She took a few deep breaths and picked up her pack. She left the temple behind, walking at a brisk pace back to the monastery. The silent chambers of her heart echoed with all her voices: It’s enough. And it is everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This rather epilogue-ish last chapter is an homage to the three of us who all played Three Houses at once, on all the different routes. We were Saoirse, Sìm, and Arlen, of Golden Deer, Blue Lions and Black Eagles respectively.

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for E.


End file.
